


And Having Bad Ideas

by cq2



Series: Stripper AU [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Dancing, Drinking, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Oral Sex, Pre-Threesome, Semi-Public Sex, Stripper AU, Stripping, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-23
Updated: 2020-08-23
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:34:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26054272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cq2/pseuds/cq2
Summary: Enjolras is a stripper who makes poor decisions. Mont is a massive tease, and very persuasive when he wants to be. Grantaire is just along for the ride.
Relationships: Enjolras/Grantaire/Montparnasse, Enjolras/Montparnasse (Les Misérables)
Series: Stripper AU [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1975720
Comments: 5
Kudos: 17





	And Having Bad Ideas

**Author's Note:**

> Title from _Why'd You Only Call Me When You're High?_ by Arctic Monkeys.

“You look like shit,” Courfeyrac grins at him in the mirror, putting on what must be his eighth application of Fenty Vegan-Apple-Beauty-Bomb-What-The-Fuck-Ever lip gloss. He blows Enjolras a kiss. 

Enjolras rolls his eyes, turning back to his locker. “I thought the dark circles would drum up some business.” He toes out of his boots, scowling as he throws them in with his backpack and slams it closed a little bit too loudly. “I hate the lunch shift.”

“None of that today, babe,” calls Jehan from across the room. He is, as usual, entirely naked except for a full face of makeup and an elaborate braid swinging down his back. 

“Peaches, love,” says Courfeyrac, using Jehan’s stage name, “you realize that the entire point of _stripping_ is starting with clothes on, and taking them off, right?” 

“Hush, I haven’t gotten there yet,” scolds Jehan. “Couldn’t decide between the pink cheetah print spandex or the gold lame. But that is most definitely not the point. This boy needs _help,”_ he insists, rushing towards Enjolras and grabbing him by the arm. “I mean, Pixie, just _look_ at him, babe.” 

“I think I’ll be fine on my own, thanks.” Enjolras knows full well there’s no stopping Jehan and Courf once they get started, but he’d be remiss if he didn’t try. Jehan drags him over to the mirrors and pushes him into the chair next to Courf, who is already digging through his extensive makeup collection.

“Resistance is futile, sweetie. Don’t make this harder on yourself,” Jehan says while he tries to tame Enjolras’ curls into something a little less bedhead chic.

“Fine, but only foundation this time. I am not wearing your Pat McGrath Mothership again- and I hate that I know what that is because of you.” 

“Aw, he’s learning!” Courf giggles with Jehan as he applies the foundation he’s dug up in the recesses of his bag. Enjolras doesn’t want to know why Courf happens to have the right shade for Enjolras’ skin tone. “Okay, eyes closed,” Courf instructs, and Enjolras obeys. 

“Why _do_ you look like shit, anyway?” Another voice drawls, much too close to Enjolras’ ear. He flinches. 

“Christ, where’d you come from?” He glares at Montparnasse, who’s leaning over the makeup table, chin resting lazily in his hand. He didn’t even know Mont was working this shift. 

“Looks like you’ve been up all night,” Mont presses, arching one perfectly plucked brow. 

_No thanks to you,_ Enjolras thinks. He’d punch that pretty face, if he didn’t think it would give their house mom, Marius, a heart attack. It’s Mont’s fault that he was up all night, and then had to spend the early morning hours trying to sober up enough to take decent notes in his Introduction to International Relations seminar. Well, mostly Mont’s fault. 

Grantaire isn’t entirely innocent either. Ever since Enjolras started hooking up with the bouncer and Mont, he’s been spending more nights with them then he’s willing to admit. Not to mention less time on class work, and tuition is the reason he started stripping in the first place. He tries not to think about the casual drugs he’s been doing with them, as well. He scowls into the mirror at Mont.

“Go fuck yourself,” he says, though there isn’t much bite to it. There’s not much else he can say in front of Courf and Jehan without spilling his sordid secrets. Mont just shrugs and walks off in the direction of his locker. Enjolras can’t tell if he’s imagining the smug look on Mont’s face. 

“Okay, you look halfway presentable, at least,” Courfeyrac says, “but if you’d just let me put on a little-“ 

“Absolutely not.”

“You never let me have any fun,” he sighs, all dramatics. “And Jehan, dear, put on some clothes, will you? I think it feels like a gold lame kind of morning.” 

\---

“Bahorel, another round, please,” Enjolras calls to the bartender, steadily cleaning glasses at the other end of the bar. 

Bahorel nods at him, acknowledging that it’ll be right up. While he waits, he slips into one of the high barstools. It’s a Monday morning. They’ve been open three hours and not a soul has been in to the club yet. Usually they get a solid lunch hour rush- lonely businessmen who can’t always get away from their wives during evening hours. Enjolras has a few regulars on his Thursday morning shift- his only other AM. But Monday’s are hell. Everyone returns to the grind on Monday morning, hungover and bleary eyed with nothing but empty pockets to show from a weekend of blowing money. No one is going out. 

Enjolras glances at the door, where Grantaire is slouching, vaguely watching Jehan and Courf on stage. He looks exhausted. Enjolras absently wonders if their bouncer can sleep with his eyes open. His shirt is slightly untucked on one side. He looks almost as bad as Enjolras feels.

“Rough night, I take it?” Bahorel asks, sidling up and placing two shot glasses on the bar between them. Enjolras merely nods back as the bartender pours fresh espresso into them, and they take their shots. 

“Why do we even have an espresso machine?”

“I’m supposed to say for espresso martinis, but no one fuckin’ drinks those. So I guess it’s just mopey dancer boys working mornings,” he grins. 

“Uncalled for,” Enjolras scowls, even though he knows it’s true. Bahorel’s grin doesn’t fade, and Enjolras follows his gaze. Jehan and Courf are on stage, working out some new routine together. They keep asking Chetta to play _… Baby One More Time_ on repeat- something they can only get away with when there aren’t any clients around- and Enjolras is going to lose his mind. But Bahorel doesn’t seem to feel the same way. Bahorel’s eyes are stuck on Jehan like glitter to a stripper.

“Are you enjoying the show, or do you just _really_ love this song?” Enjolras asks. 

“If you aren’t giving straight answers about your night, you’re not going to get them from me,” Bahorel says, taking their empty shot glasses and returning to the other end of the bar. 

“I for one would love to revisit a few details about last night,” Mont says, and Enjolras nearly falls off his stool. 

“How the _fuck_ are you doing that?” Enjolras asks as Mont slides onto the stool next to him. Mont grins. 

“Bahorel, two vodka sodas, please,” he calls to the bartender. 

“That better be for you and Bahorel. Is it even past noon?”

“Oh, I’m sorry, we haven’t had a single client all day, you look like you crawled out of dumpster, and tweedle-dee and tweedle-dum over there have had Britney on loop for almost an hour. You’re telling me you don’t need hard liquor to get through a Monday morning?”

Enjolras resists the urge to thunk his forehead onto the bar. Instead, when a vodka soda is placed in front of him, he asks for a lime to go with it. 

“That’s what I thought,” Mont says. He rolls the straw in between his fingers idly after taking a sip, watching Bahorel disappear into the back. 

“What do you want?” Enjolras asks after the silence between them stretches too long to be comfortable. 

“I didn’t know I wasn’t allowed to sit at the bar,” Mont replies. 

“You’re willingly sitting with me and ordering my drinks. I don’t think you’re looking for someone to gossip with to fill the time.”

“Fine.” Mont looks at him resolutely. “I was wondering if you wanted to dance.”

Enjolras snorts. “Uh, yeah, no. I’m good,” he rolls his eyes, taking another sip. They dance together all the time, for the money. They both know how they look pressed up against each other. But without any clients around, Mont isn’t his who he’d turn to for a good time. They’re prickly around each other, at best.

Mont pointedly looks at Grantaire, leaning against the wall next to the door. “Are you sure?” 

Enjolras weighs his options. He can sit here by himself with his vodka until 6pm rolls around, or he can try and make the minutes move a little faster. He stares down at his drink. 

“Fine, let’s go,” he says, standing. Mont grabs him by the wrist before he can get two steps towards the stage. He turns, and Mont hands him the mostly full vodka soda. He takes it, and okay, so it’s barely the afternoon, but what can one drink do? Dancing is better when you’re drunk anyway. Especially dancing with Mont. They lock eyes and down their respective drinks. Enjolras doesn’t drink vodka, but he likes the way it burns. It wakes him up almost as well as the espresso. 

Mont’s hand is still on his wrist, so Enjolras twists his hand up to grab Mont’s. He interlocks their fingers and tows him toward the stage. If he’s gonna put on a show, he might as well go for it, he figures. 

“Chetta, play literally anything else,” Mont calls up towards the booth. 

“Chetta, love, don’t you dare. We haven’t finished our choreography,” Jehan whines. 

Enjolras fixes Courf with his best puppy dog expression. It’s not his strong suit, but thanks to his wide array of clients, he can play the part well enough. “Please, just one song and then we won’t ask again,” he asks. Courf stares for moment, eyes flicking down to his hand entwined with Mont’s. 

“Come on, Peaches, I need a drink anyway,” Courf says, giving Enjolras a look he can’t decipher as he pulls Jehan towards the bar. 

“Suck up,” Mont mutters under his breath so only Enjolras can hear him. Mont smiles up towards Musichetta and something slower with a nice bass comes on. Enjolras almost sighs from relief for the brief Britney reprieve. 

Mont grabs him by the waist and pulls him flush against his body. Mont is barely an inch taller, but he’s still not used to looking up to meet someone’s eyes. But Mont isn’t looking at him, he’s looking out into the house. 

Enjolras follows his gaze, and has to press a smile into Mont’s shoulder. Grantaire is still standing by the door, but he no longer looks like a member of the walking dead. He’s is very, very awake. 

Enjolras grinds his hips into Mont’s, sliding a hand down one of his lean arms. He feels fingers in his hair, and Mont pulls a little. Enjolras isn’t entirely sure if this is a show or foreplay. Now that he thinks about it, it’s probably both. 

Mont grabs his hips more firmly and twists Enjolras around. He goes with it, pressing his ass into Mont. Mont’s fingers trail absently against his hips, one of his hands finding its way to cupping his ass. As Enjolras grinds against him, he’s not particularly surprised to find that Mont’s half hard in his black briefs. He’d be lying if he didn’t admit he was, as well. This used to be so much easier when he wasn’t trying to block out images from the night before. 

Mont’s fingers find their way to Enjolras’ waistband, hooking into the tight fabric. Enjolras isn’t sure if Mont is going to slide them off or not, but stranger things have happened between the two of them. Enjolras doesn’t move to stop him, but Mont releases him after a moment, fingers tracing up his V line and towards his bare chest. 

As the song vamps up, he chances another look towards Grantaire. He’s unmoving, standing stiffly against the doorframe, eyes fixed firmly on the two boys. Enjolras grins, knowing Mont isn’t the only one half hard. 

He turns to face Mont again, his hands falling loosely around his neck as he presses closer. Mont smiles wickedly. 

“You ready to sell it?” He murmurs, and before Enjolras can ask what he means, Mont’s lips are on his. The kiss is deep from the start, Mont pressing his way into Enjolras’ mouth. Enjolras lets out a moan that he’ll never admit was real as Mont bites his lip. His hands find Mont’s hair, holding him there, while Mont’s fingers dig into his hip bones, keeping their steady grinding rhythm. The kiss is short, but deep enough to feel lasting.

As the song starts to fade out, Mont lets out a breath and pulls back a little. He looks out into the audience. 

“Yeah, I’d say that did it,” he says, smirking. Enjolras can’t help it. He looks. 

Grantaire is wrecked. His eyes are wild, like he can’t bear to look away. His fingers twitch uselessly at his sides. Enjolras meets his gaze, and he gives him a little smile, because fuck it, why not?

Mont lets go of him and starts to drag him towards the bar. Enjolras feels a little lightheaded. 

“The fuck are you staring at?” Mont demands of Courf. He’s eyeing Enjolras with the same expression that he can’t place. Courf doesn’t bother with a response, but turns to distract Jehan from his animated conversation with Bahorel. 

Enjolras slides back into his previously vacated seat, looking around. Still no new patrons, of course. However, there are two fresh vodka sodas sitting on the bar in front of him. Bahorel has been paying more attention than he gave him credit for. 

Mont takes his drink and goes to sit on one of the leather couches. Grantaire is still standing like some kind of petrified statue at the door. Enjolras’ head swims. He wonders, for the twentieth time this week, what the hell he’s gotten himself into. 

Bahorel appears at Enjolras’ elbow. “Have a good time?” He smirks. 

_… Baby One More Time_ starts again.

“I fucking hate the lunch shift.”

\---

Enjolras finishes the last button on his shirt, grabs his backpack, and closes his locker. 

“Nice dance,” Mont says, leaning against the locker next to his. Enjolras jumps.

“You _seriously_ have to stop doing that,” Enjolras says, shaking it off. 

“Headed home?” Mont asks casually. 

“Why do you care?” 

“Walk with me,” Mont says, and Enjolras has half a mind to say no. But Mont is headed towards the back door, and Enjolras is ready to go anyway, so he falls into step next to him. “You saw Grantaire earlier? Actually, scratch that. You see Grantaire every day? He cannot keep coming to work like that.”

“What, exhausted? Then maybe you should stop convincing him to stay out every night,” Enjolras says, really just wishing that Mont would stop convincing _him_ to stay out every night. 

“No, god no,” Mont nearly laughs. “I want him out every night.” 

Enjolras internally sighs. “Then what do you mean?”

“His clothes? Hello? That second hand suit that doesn’t fit, the wrinkles in his dress shirt that have probably been there since before he hit puberty?”

“And why do we care?”

“He’s the first face our clients see when they come in. He needs to reflect the high-end attitude of the club. And he needs to look like he could kick anyone’s ass who steps out of line. He’s gotta be intimidating.”

Enjolras snorts. “You just want the guy you’re fucking to look halfway decent.” 

“And you don’t?” Mont asks as they walk into the parking lot. The late summer sun burns Enjolras’ eyes after being in the dimly lit club all morning. 

“I don’t particularly care, Mont,” Enjolras stares at him. “I’m going home now.” 

“No no no,” Mont grabs his wrist again. “Come on, let’s bring him shopping. He’s getting off work now too, it’ll be fun. We can go downtown, pick him out something nice, and then maybe go to his. And it’s still early, you can go home and get your shit together after.” 

“Thanks,” Enjolras says dryly. He has to admit, though, he needed to head downtown in the next few days anyway to pick up some new dress pants for a presentation he has coming up in American Gov and Politics. 

“So that’s a yes?” Mont asks, even though it’s clearly not a yes. 

Enjolras doesn’t respond. 

“Okay, great,” Mont grabs him by the hand, “let’s go get him, I think he’s still out front. He can drive. Jesus, finally, I cannot _wait_ to get him into some Burberry.” 

\---

“This is the last one, and then we’re getting pizza,” Grantaire declares, looking drained. 

They’ve been in Burberry, Tom Ford, and Gucci before Mont steers them towards Gieves & Hawkes. Not to mention the stop inside Armani for Mont, and admittedly, Enjolras popped into Calvin Klein. 

Mont quickly sniffs out the most expensive suit in the store, promising he’ll pay for it when Grantaire blanches at the price tag for the tenth time tonight. 

He stuffs a bewildered Grantaire and 3 different suits into a dressing room while Enjolras sits on an expensive looking velvet couch near a floor to ceiling mirror. If the last three stores are anything to go by, Grantaire will be in there for a while. Turns out he’s not entirely sure how to put on a suit. 

Mont appears from around the corner and sits next to Enjolras. Enjolras checks the time, fully aware that it’s getting late and he hasn’t had a full night’s sleep in a week. He isn’t working tomorrow, but he does have an early Intro to Comparative Politics lecture in the morning. He also thinks Grantaire might start a riot if he doesn’t have pizza in the next half hour. 

“I’m actually just going to head over to Valentino for a minute, I won’t be long. I can just meet you guys at the pizza place. Text me the name?” He asks, standing to go. 

“Oh god, no, Grantaire will take forever in there. Besides, can I really trust you in Valentino alone? I’ll come with,” Mont decides. 

“I’ll be okay on my own,” Enjolras insists, only mildly affronted. “And I think Grantaire needs you more than I do.”

“Valentino is literally across the street, he’ll be fine.” Mont is already walking toward the door. “I’ll text Grantaire and let him know where we are.”

Enjolras sighs, resigning himself to following Mont. How much trouble can he be- they’re just going to pick out a pair of slacks.

\---

Enjolras allows himself to be ushered into the dressing room holding four different pairs of pants, despite knowing exactly the type, size, and color he wanted. If trying on the Mohair Wool Twin Pleat will get Mont to shut up, it’s worth the extra five minutes. 

He slips out of his jeans and into the first pair, declaring aloud to Mont that he doesn’t like the cut. 

“You’re hopeless, I bet it looks amazing, let me see,” Mont calls from behind the door. 

“No, I’m already taking them off.”

“Just let me in then,” Mont demands. Enjolras sighs. Fighting with Mont never really gets you anywhere, so he opens the door enough to let Mont slide in. Besides, he takes his clothes off for a living. Letting Mont stand in his dressing room like a teenage girl giggling over crop tops at Urban Outfitters isn’t the worst thing that’s happened to him today. 

“Yeah, okay, they don’t do anything for your ass, fine. Next pair,” Mont agrees. Enjolras holds back a _told you so_ as he takes them off. 

Mont stops him with a hand on his own when he reaches for the second pair. “Actually,” he says, “what if you didn’t put those on yet?”

Enjolras just looks at him. “You want me to put on a different pair first?” 

“No,” Mont murmurs, eyeing him the way he did in the club this afternoon. “Maybe you shouldn’t put any on.” 

“Mont,” Enjolras begins, feeling lost, “I know you’re not trying to come on to me without Grantaire around. What do you want?” 

“Did you see him earlier? When we were dancing?”

“Obviously.”

“I want him like that when he takes us home. Completely desperate like that.”

“Yeah, sorry, but I’m pretty sure the only thing he’s concerned about right now is pizza.” 

“So,” Mont says, moving closer in the already small space, “let’s concern him with something else.”

“He is literally in a different building.”

“Oh my fucking god, you are so dumb sometimes,” Mont says, holding up his phone like it’s the clearest thing in the world. “Ever heard of snapchat?”

Enjolras stares at him. He’s standing half naked in a dressing room with his coworker turned fuckbuddy that he happens to hate, debating whether or not to send pictures to their other fuckbuddy that he hates a little bit less. How much lower can he sink, really?

“Fuck it,” Enjolras shrugs, “you better have some really good coke tonight,” he says nonchalantly, wondering who those words belong to when they leave his mouth. 

“You can even have the first bump,” Mont promises, unlocking his phone with one hand and unbuttoning his jeans with the other. He grins, reaching over to unbutton the top two buttons of Enjolras’ shirt. Then he grabs him by the collar and pulls him in for a deep kiss. Enjolras thinks of the kiss they shared on stage this afternoon. 

“I thought,” he said, pulling back a little, “that this was for Grantaire?” 

“Doesn’t mean we can’t have a little fun doing it,” Mont murmurs into Enjolras’ mouth. He twists a hand into his hair, and Enjolras thinks he’s intentionally messing it up. Nothing like setting the scene. Mont presses deeper into Enjolras’ mouth, before biting down on his lower lip. He’d be embarrassed about the whimper that escapes him, if he was thinking clearly.

He hears the fake camera shutter from snapchat. 

“Oh, that’s nice,” Mont pulls away. Enjolras didn’t even realize they were taking a photo. He looks at the screen. They’re locked in the kiss, Mont’s tongue is in Enjolras’ mouth. “Grantaire is going to _die,”_ Mont announces gleefully. He sends the photo off. 

Mont grabs Enjolras by hips, surprising him by pulling him flush against his own. He kisses him again, just as deep as the last. But this time, he reaches for the waistband of Enjolras’ briefs. There’s no foreplay, this isn’t sex, or whatever passes for fucked up sex between the three of them. He reaches for Enjolras’ cock, while the blonde gasps against his lips. 

There’s another shutter sound, and it ends as quickly as it started. 

Enjolras is left spinning, but presses a hand against Mont’s shoulder so he can steady himself while looking at the photo. 

This one is full body, Mont using the dressing room mirror to get the shot. He has to admit it to himself, it’s a nice photo. Again, Mont sends it off to Grantaire, laughing to himself. 

He looks up at Enjolras, eyeing him. 

“You really want to fuck with him?” He asks.

“I thought this was your game,” Enjolras replies, unsure of how far Mont is willing to take this. 

“Get on your knees.” 

Enjolras considers for a moment. He doesn’t love taking orders from Mont, but he can already tell where this is going. And if you’re going to do something, do it right. 

He drops to his knees. Mont takes himself in his hand, stroking himself to full hardness. Enjolras wonders what Grantaire is thinking right now, across the street. Has he opened the snaps?

Mont takes himself out and Enjolras doesn’t hesitate to wrap his lips around his cock. No point in drawing this out, really. It’s strange, being sober and alone with Mont. But there’s a sick sort of thrill in this, doing something that feels off limits. 

He starts to work himself down the length of Mont, not bothering for a slow build. He opens his throat, taking in nearly all of him. Mont moans above him, and Enjolras looks up, right into the camera lens. He makes a show of sucking, his cheeks hollowing out. He slowly pulls himself off Mont, with a sweet little pop, before lightly sucking at his head. Mont puts his free hand in Enjolras’ hair, and holds him steady as he presses in Enjolras’ mouth. 

It doesn’t take much, considering how strong he started, but he’s sure Mont will come if he keeps this up. He wasn’t expecting to take it this far, but if they want to get Grantaire riled up, this will definitely do it. 

Enjolras enthusiastically resumes sucking him off, taking his entire length down his throat. He’s a little horrified that the choking noise might alert a sales associate, but it’s too late for that either way. Mont’s grip tightens, and he pulls out sharply, his come streaking over Enjolras’ face. Because of-fucking-course Mont would come on his face instead of just down his throat. But hey, he smiles pretty for the camera anyway, because he’s here now and this is the finale. 

Mont lets go and turns away to tuck himself back into his jeans. Enjolras gets off the ground, examining himself in the mirror. He hopes the staff will be polite enough not to mention the come in his hair while he’s paying for his slacks. 

“Did you send it?” He asks, wiping the come off his cheek with his shirt sleeve. 

“Not yet,” Mont holds out the phone in response. His own face stares back at him, lips wrapped around Mont’s cock. He looks disheveled and downright depraved. He can’t help but think it’s kind of a look.

Mont takes it back, sending it off to Grantaire. He grins, still a little shaky. 

“So, about your pants,” he starts. 

“Yeah, no opinion for you, we’re getting these,” Enjolras declares, buttoning up his jeans and grabbing the pair he originally wanted. He takes one more look in the mirror, decides they both look about as good as they can after that, and unlocks the door. 

Grantaire is standing directly on the other side. His pupils are blown wide- he looks utterly wrecked. Enjolras isn’t sure if he’s furious or desperate. 

“You two,” Grantaire says, his voice dangerously quiet, “are in _so_ much trouble.”

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to my strange little fucked up stripper AU! I'm considering making this into a larger series- so please don't be afraid to let me know how you feel about it. Thanks for reading!


End file.
